


Force of Habit

by isthatacatsherlock



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Nightmares, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-07
Updated: 2013-04-07
Packaged: 2017-12-07 19:07:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/751983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isthatacatsherlock/pseuds/isthatacatsherlock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock have a routine for coping with nightmares.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Force of Habit

It always started with a gasp. Sherlock looked at the clock on the wall. He slept light enough to be able to tell that John was having a nightmare. Each time, it began the same way- gasp- rigid limbs- and then devolved into whimpering. It was like he was too proud to wake himself up, and instead chose to endure it like a soldier. Sherlock first merely cuddled up to him- spooning- leaving light kisses down his neck and the top of his spine. It didn't make it stop. Moans came and got louder- whimpers of a little boy stuck inside John, the one he hadn't let be a boy since about the age of ten. "Sshh," Sherlock soothed, sitting up and pulling John onto his lap. He leaned against the headboard, cradling the doctor. "You're safe, John," he whispered. "You are. You're just fine."

John felt the kisses first. Kisses are nice. Soft lips against his skin. But then he was back in the desert, his fingers inside some kid's neck- the empty look in his eyes letting John know he had, once again, failed. He was being pursued. Electricity jolted through him but he couldn't do anything but scream, and not know if Sherlock heard him. John felt himself move, felt a heartbeat that wasn't his. He focused, just for a minute, on that. His body rested firmly against something. He was in a long, lean, gangly basket. Sherlock. Sherlock rocked him. He relaxed. Hmmmmmm, this was nice. He felt fingers through his hair, and then himself getting aroused.

Sherlock figured arousal was force of habit now. John was in the hazy, delicate area between sleep and awale, and he had gone from flaccid to erect in seconds. Handjobs were indeed their thing, and he didn't mind, because John would surely be paying him off later- a naughty blowjob on the couch, perhaps- something about leaning back on the couch with his pants half off and John's lips around him, reminded him of those afternoons in his 30s spent wanking about John, and even earlier, at age fifteen on the couch in the room no one went to at his parent's house, discovering how much better it felt to ejaculate with his hand gripping the sensitive flesh, thinking taboo thoughts of other boys doing the same thing, than to have a wet dream. Yes, John always paid him back. Sherlock reached for the lube and smeared some on his hand, and then he began giving John long, gentle strokes. The doctor lay back on the pillows, leaving his torso and his groin on his lap.

John was half awake now, allowing himself to exist in a world composed purely of the pleasure between his legs. He focused on the touch, the pull, the pleasure more intense now he had no way to control how he was touched. Sherlock started pulling, twisting his wrist. He didn't even try to stop the first little burst of precome oozing down. The pull just got harder. He played with the foreskin. It was coming, and he didn't even try to stop it. This was perfect. When it came, his legs were spread and he felt the release, the slight pressure of the come shooting out of him.   
Sherlock gave a last, big slow tug as John came all over his arm- a good healthy amount- and he grabbed a t shirt, now their cum rag, and wiped it up. John sighed, turned off of Sherlock and onto his side. More kisses, the nice soothing touch of lips on his back. Sherlock stroked his hair and felt him drift off to sleep. Tomorrow he could bring up how bad the nightmares had been getting, how another MRI was necessary. Perhaps he would make him breakfast to broach the subject. For now, he would just let him sleep.


End file.
